Georgina answered the phone. "Hello?"
She was drunk, because her words on the telephone billowed out, as though alcohol was pushing them unwillingly into the world. The "Hello" came out loud (a lot louder than Georgina permitted herself when sober). Also, the "Hello" was sort of slurred. Altogether, it was pretty obvious that she'd drunk her Southern Comfort and was flying high.
"It's me," I said.
Well, of course it was. The judge was out of town, wasn't he? It was almost inevitable that I would call, right?
I could sense her lushy smile creeping crookedly onto her face. "Oh, hi sweetie pie." She sighed and gave a little giggle. "I've been thinking about you."
Yes, she was thinking about me. Her husband goes off with his buddies on a golfing trip, and she's left alone. When she's left alone, she knows I'm very likely to call. She wants me to call. In fact, the minute His Honor leaves, she starts thinking about me, wanting me to call. When she thinks about me, her fingers start itching for her crotch. Her sex juice starts flowing. (I'm not kidding about this. She tells me it's true, and I'm sure that it is. Georgina can unleash a mighty flood of sex juice when she really puts her mind to it.).
But when the sex juice starts dripping, the guilt does, too. One leads inevitably to the other. Georgina is a God-fearing woman of old-fashioned upbringing, with guilt-trips aplenty. She hates her husband, but she can't bear the thought of divorce: the impact on her children (all over twenty, but still), the loss of status in the community, and what will the women at the First Methodist Church say, yada yada yada. She tortures herself. Her crotch aches. The Judge leaves, the sex thoughts start up, and she needs to calm herself, so the secret bottle of Southern Comfort that she's stashed beneath her pink and yellow sweaters in the closet comes out, she takes three quick drinks, gloop, gloop, gloop, and then she's loaded. The guilt is still there, but it's bearable, and her befuddled mind can ease its way onto the path of sexiness without regret or further delay.
As she drinks those drinks, her fingers find her wet pussy, and her fingers make her even wetter. Yes, she told me that, once. That time, she was really very, very drunk, and she told me about the entire ritual with the Southern Comfort, the bubble bath, the fingers in the pussy, her own yelps of pleasure. She prepares herself, works herself up, knowing that I will be around to see her eventually, and she needs to get herself completely ready for What She Needs.
She's never told me why she drinks like that, and ours isn't the sort of relationship which normally permits me to delve deeply into her motivation or foibles. What I know about Georgina is mostly surmise, although there have been the few occasions when she's told me things, and I can put two and two together.
I do know that I am there for one reason and one reason only.
I have a prick.
Georgina may be old-fashioned, God-fearing and Church-going, but she was really made for one thing only, and that is for having sex, and enjoying it. What irony: her upbringing, most cherished views, and husband all conspire to create such conflict in her life. So, she has sex, and the way things have turned out, she has it with me, and she feels terribly, horribly guilty about it even as she screams at the top of her lungs in her big house when her husband is away and I have my prick pounding her.
One thing is certain, the judge isn't pounding her pussy. He's got too many other things on his mind. (Just as we don't really discuss Georgina's drinking, she and I don't really discuss the judge's sexuality. However, reading between the lines, I strongly suspect that he's got erectile dysfunction or something. Maybe he won't admit it. But despite all of Georgina's faults, she's not the sort of woman you'd grow easily tired of fucking, so I assume there's a reason why the judge isn't doing his duty and forces her to find other outlets for her passion.)
"Are you coming over soon, Jimmy?" she asks.
"I'm thinking about it."
"Well, don't take too long," she says. And giggles again. Man, she really does sound drunk.
"I'll be over soon," I say. And then I hang up.
Okay, I know you're going to ask. Why do I want to go to the Judge's house and fuck Georgina, when she's drunk?
Well, here's part of the reason, which I alluded to earlier. Georgina is one crazy, wonderful fuck. Really.
The Judge is about fifty-eight, and he's jowly and has an ass on him that would sink a battleship. I'm sure that wasn't the case when he married Georgina, which was when she was twenty and he was thirty-five. And, obviously, at one point his cock worked okay, because they had three kids, now all in college or otherwise away from the house. But I know he's not doing her today, this week, this month, or maybe even this year. To my knowledge, only one guy gives her the jollies.
Me.
Georgina is forty three. She's about five-eight, with ridiculously lush curly hair. She washes that hair twice a week with fragrant shampoo, and her hair turns all sparkly and sweet smelling.
I'm not sure what she eats. I'm sort of thinking that she doesn't eat much. Of course, I wouldn't know, because our relationship doesn't take us out to restaurants or anything. She's fed me the occasional bottle of beer, and once or twice a sandwich, but I've rarely ever seen her eat anything she's prepared. Her refrigerator isn't loaded with anything. Most of the time when we eat, I do the cooking.
So, the Judge may be Mr. Lard, but Georgina is lean. She works out. I can tell. She has one of these big old indoor treadmills, not to mention some hand weights. I'm sure she uses them every day. The woman has muscle tone like spandex and a set of abs to make any bodybuilder proud. I should also mention that she has long, luscious legs and a set of hooters that sort of float above her chest. I kid you not.
So what do I care if she's drunk when I have her? I'd be crazy not to take what she's offering.
I mention another good reason for fucking Georgina. It isn't that I like her, not really. I mean, I'm sure if she were sober, I probably couldn't stand her. After all, she's a God-fearing, evangelical Republican who thinks George Bush walks on water. All she really cares about in life is showing off that she's Mrs. Judge, that she's got the big bucks, that her daughters are in the Cotillion, her son's fixed up with J.P. Millionaire's daughter, yada yada yada.
I appreciate none of this. I appreciate her big tits and sweet pussy, and that's about it. Frankly, it's fortunate that she's such a hypocrite that her pussy juice won't flow until she's drunk.
About the best I can say about Georgina is that I sort of feel sorry for her. I mean, here she is, the Great Lady, and she needs a regular pounding by a guy who's done jail time. She doesn't know that, but it's the truth.
Right. I did three years. And who do you think sentenced me?
Aha! Now you understand.
You're probably wondering how we met. She's Mrs. Uppity, and I'm Mr. Jailtime. Believe me, it took some doing.
I wouldn't have even thought about it, except about two months after I got out, one of my first jobs was bussing dishes at hoo hah banquets. For this I got minimum, but it was welcome at the time. I got to wear a white bus jacket, a black tie, and be inconspicuous as I shoveled dishes off the tables.
It just so happened that the Judge and Georgina were there.
I knew the Judge right off. I doubt he remembered me. Why would he? He must sentence lots of guys every month, and he gave me mine three years before, for a small-time heist that I wish I could forget. Worst mistake of my life, believe me. (Unless you count banging Georgina. I suppose that really could turn out badly, too, but thus far, it hasn't, so I continue).
Judge Faraday sat at the table, laughing with one of his buddies. Next to him was this knockout woman with sparkling hair, floating breasts, and a sappy, drunken smile that showed she was in the bag and probably didn't care.
I probably wouldn't have thought about it, except fate stepped in.
I was bussing a table not far from the Judge and Georgina. There was no one at that table, but there were two women at the next one. Gossiping women.
I reached for the dirty dishes and glassware, and one of them said, "Georgina Faraday, she's sure drunk."
Giggle, giggle, goes the other one. "Not really sober as a judge's lady, is she?"
The other one sputters at the stupid joke. I clink the glassware, but a lot slower. This I want to hear.
"She was sloshing down the Comfort before dinner."
"Why she do that?"
"We were in high school together, and she was the same." Chuckle, chuckle. "Only time she'd let herself make it with a boy was when she was loaded. Then she was red hot."
"She's married now."
"Unhappily married."
"She should have an affair."
Chuckle, chuckle. "She couldn't get up the nerve unless she were drunk. And what kind of affair would that be?"
What kind of affair would that be? I decided to find out.
So I waited. No problem knowing when the Judge would be out of town, because they published his schedule down at the courthouse. He had a circuit that took him up to Holman, once a month for three days. It's a hundred miles north, and he doesn't come home at night.
I should know. He tried and sentenced me in Holman.
So on the second night of the Judge's next trip to Holman, I decided to try my luck. First, I telephoned the Judge's house.
"Hello?"
It was the Hello I soon came to know. The one powered by Comfort.
I pitched my voice a bit higher than usual. "Mrs. Faraday, please."
She didn't hiccup, but she gave a slightest giggle. "This is she."
"This is Bloomsday Flowers, Mrs. Faraday. Would this be a good time for us to make a delivery? A dozen roses."
Puzzled silence. "Are you sure you have the right person?"
I rattled off her address. "You are Georgina Faraday, correct?"
"Well, yessss . . . "
"Thank you. Our truck will be there in about fifteen minutes. Enjoy the flowers, ma'am."
And I hung up before her stewed mind could start thinking of questions. Like -- who would be sending me a dozen roses at 8 o'clock on a Thursday night in March?
Fifteen minutes later, I was there, roses, clipboard, and all. Dressed in a clean jumpsuit, with a neat plastic tag that read "Bloomsday Flowers," and "Jimmy Gorman" below it. Not my real name, of course, but there's nothing like identification to give confidence.
The door opened. I smiled my Bloomsday smile.
Georgina was incredible.
Yes, she was drunk. Naturally. And she was wearing a low-cut blouse that made her tits bloom out at you like balloons. A silly smile was plastered on her face.
"This is so nice of you," she said. She squinted at my tag. "Jimmy."
"No problem," I said. "Bloomsday Flowers is happy to please. Could I bring them in for you?"
Now, of course this was odd -- what flower deliveryman brings the flowers into the house? But I smiled a winning smile and held those roses nearly up to my face.
And she was drunk.
"Well -- " she said, and took a step back.
I moved past her, then turned around. And as luck would have it, there was a large, empty vase on a table right there.
"That vase would be perfect for these," I said. Without waiting for her reply, I took the roses, thrust them into the vase, and picked it up. "The kitchen's this way, right?"
I took off in the likely direction of the kitchen, leaving her behind.
By the time she arrived, I was running the water and had the package unwrapped.
"This is our special service," I said.
There was a glass half full of a drink on the kitchen table. There was a half-empty bottle next to it, and even another glass. She looked at me. She looked at the drink.
Then she licked her lips and sidled towards the half-full glass.
I started filling the vase. Georgina slowly sat down. Her fingers wrapped around her glass.
"It certainly appears special."
